She frowned. “You're talking as if we can decide what we want to do. But we don't have a choice. We have to fight. It's not just fighting for us, it's fighting for you and for everyone living and dead. Everyone who comes after us. It's fighting for our future. It's not about us, it's about the whole human race. And don't think you can get out of it and if you just do what they tell you and mind your own business you'll live. If we don't fight they're going to kill us just the same. Not just us here on this train, us humans."
"What do you mean?" I said.
"You know how they've been terraforming Mars – dumping artificial algae there and such, to change the atmosphere? Eventually they're just going to move their population there and get rid of us. But in the meantime they're working on a new disease.” Her voice sank to a murmur. "There's too many of us. How many people do you think there are in Greater London now?"
"No idea. Maybe a few million."
"The thing is they probably only need maybe a fifth of that. We do all the dirty work, so chances are they don't want to get rid of us, but they only need so many of us. And there's some jobs where they could replace us with biorobots or orzillos.” Orzillos were a species of biotech predator designed by the Mods; they sometimes used the nocturnal beasts as guard animals. “You remember that lethal flu outbreak a year ago in East London? It didn't work because too many people had immunity. It was a botched experiment. So they've moved on from that. What they want now is a disease that will sterilize us humans, that way there's not so many corpses, and it reduces the population. So that's why all the people going to the lab. And they're hoping they can get away with it without sparking off another war.”
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"It's obvious. They've done it before. They're immune to most human diseases, their immune systems are more potent, and they use these artificial viruses to kill off infectious bacteria anyway. So they can slaughter us or sterilize with a disease and it won't touch them. The thing is they need us, but they're afraid of us as well. They know we outnumber them ten to one. That's why they keep food and fuel so cheap, that's why they keep us disunited. They know if we band together we can get rid of them like - like a horse shaking off flies. And that's what they're afraid of, is that we'll realize our own strength."
"Nah, I don't believe in any of that shit," Jason broke in, "we're just screwing around and they'll pay it back to us. They'll just kill more of us. It's useless."
"And look. You weren't even trying to give them any trouble and they arrested you anyway," Shelley retorted. “It doesn't matter whether you follow their rules or not. The real sin we've all committed is being born human. And they're not as united as they'd like us to think they are. They've got factions just like we do. They're united against us because they're afraid of us, but there's disagreements between them we could use to split them up. The thing is to find the right way to fight them.”
“Sooner or later they're going to put all of us in work camps,” Jason said; “the only reason we've still got cities is it's too much trouble to tear 'em all down. Once London's rotted away, they'll just build camps for us, you know, like work camps.”
“How do you know?” Shelley said. “Are you going to trust them?”
“They haven't killed us all yet,” Jason said.
“Look at how many they have killed. Look at how many people they've got in labs.”
“Only people they kill are the ones that try to fuck around with them.” Jason snorted. “That's why I don't try to fuck around with them. We all know the rules. Long as you stay in the rules you can do whatever you want.”
“Then what'd they get you for?” Shelley asked him.
“Wasn't anything I did. It was this other arsehole that did it. Me and one of my mates, we got in a fight with this stupid shit right in front of a monitor. I mean, he goes and pulls a knife on us. Worst place he could've picked. Got picked up by one of their aircars in five minutes. Just coz he didn't want to pay for what we sold him.”
“What happened to your friend?”
“They got him too. I dunno what happened to him after that. He's not on this train. Long's he's not going to the labs he's all right.”
I remembered Sophie in the holding cell. "I heard they have a captive breeding program in the government labs," I said.
Jason laughed. “A captive breeding program. Sounds nice. Probably got one bloke for every ten chicks or something. I could do with that.”
Shelley shook her head. "I don't know who told you that but that's crap. Absolute crap. If they wanted to breed more of us they'd use artificial insemination. But they won't, because they don't need more of us.”
"So you think a disease is really whey're working on,” I said.
"Yes.”
"Well then thank God we're not going to the lab," I said. I didn't want to be a guinea pig in an experiment; what looks like science to a researcher looks like sadism to the mice. As for her theory about the disease, it was meaningless, more third-hand regurgitated rumours I'd often heard gossip claiming the Mods would infect us, or irradiate us with neutron guns, or gas us from the air, that time was running out. Of course it was possible, but when it came to assembly line work, we Mongrels were cheaper than biorobots or nanomachines. You don't kill off your labour force, however truculent it may be. “Doesn't matter how bad the work camp is,” I added, “it's better than that.”
"Wait until you get there before you say that,” Shelley chided. “It'll probably be one of the landfills they have up north."
"So they have us dig it all up then?" I asked.
"Yeah, they have us dig up the landfills. They need more GIPTS." That was the acronym for gallium-indium-platinum-selenium-tantalum, five rare metals exhausted in the mines. They were invaluable because you need them make catalysts and certain electronics. The Mods recycled every last scrap of metal with scrupulous care, but GIPTS metals were still scarce as crude oil. Some Mongrels made a living scrounging for metals in unusual places - hunting for ancient catalytic converters, for example - and selling them to the Mods. The landfills were their other solution. "They need precious metals, trace metals, anything they can use. I knew someone who ended up in a work camp for two years, so they told me about it," she said. "What they do is they take the cap off the landfill, then they fence it in and they turn all the prisoners loose in there."
"How do they make sure you're working?"
"Oh, it's simple," she sighed; "if you don't find anything, you don't get fed. So from their point of view it's cheap. They only have to feed us if we get them what they want. And they get rid of us at the same time."
"And when do we get out?" I asked.
“They don't let you out,” Jason sneered. “They lock you in there till you rot."
"I didn't ask you," I said. "So do you know?" I asked, turning to Shelley again.
"How would I know? What do you think I am?" Shelley replied irritably.
"I was just asking," I said, nonplussed. "You said your friend was in a work camp."
"Yes, she was."
"So how long did they keep her in there?"
"I think it was two years or something like that, yes. But I wouldn't be in any hurry if I were you."
"I was wondering because - my girlfriend won't know what happened to me," I admitted, "and I want to get back." Jason guffawed and Shelley burst into a bitter laugh. It was an ugly sound.
"I wouldn't worry about your girlfriend," she said with a wry face like she was about to spit. "You'll be lucky enough to get back. If you get back and she's still waiting for you, it'll be a miracle."
I stiffened. I didn't believe it; I didn't want to believe it. "No, it's not like that. What did-"
"She's trying to tell you you ask too many fucking questions. She's trying to tell you to shut up," Jason interrupted.
My blood boiled. The hours in the holding cell, my increasing exhaustion, the series of numbing shocks had left me seething with a poisonous compound of rage and humiliati
on like venom congealing in my veins. "Listen, you bastard, I didn't ask-"
“Shut up.” He shoved me backwards into the dozing Indian. My left hand was already out in front of me; with a suddenness that took him off-guard, I pivoted and drove my right into his solar plexus. It was suicidal but I was too angry to care. Jason crumpled into the corner then clambered back to his feet, his lips half-parted like a wolf about to snarl. He'd beat me senseless if I were lucky.
The car degenerated into chaos. A spate of muffled curses exploded around me; several hands seized me by the arms and dragged me backwards. "Jesus Christ," one man said. “Hold 'im down.” I noticed the Indian staring at me, startled awake. All at once the light died and plunged us into darkness.
A low murmur swelled as everyone started talking all at once. Through the slats in the car I could see the platform lights receding steadily; a shudder shot threw the car and threw me off my feet into someone else. In the darkness I crawled back to what I thought was the wall. The train had finally begun to move.
Shelley was right about the cold air flowing through the slats, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had enough room to sit hunched-up with my knees to my chin. By that time I was so zonked that, in spite of the icy chill soaking through my back, I succumbed to sleep within minutes. Every now and again someone tripped over me or kicked me awake, and a series of interrupted dreams followed each other by turns. I don't remember what I dreamed about, except that in each dream I was miserably cold.
And when I finally awoke at first light, the reality was no better. The cold had seeped into my bones and a dull fire raged in my parched throat. I thought of the water-tap at the opposite end of the car, but I couldn't suppress my revulsion at sucking water from a shared spigot, like swapping spit with a few dozen strangers. It was probably encrusted in dried saliva by now. Perhaps I could wipe the spigot clean before I used it with - well, my jacket. I finally compromised on one of those childish resolutions we make in desperate moments: I decided I'd hold out until the sun rose between the third and fourth slats, and if we hadn't arrived by then, I'd give in and get a drink.
A reek redolent of an outdoor latrine crept along the floor. Dismayed, I noticed a puddle had flowed almost to my feet. At least I wasn't sitting in it. Some slob must have overturned one of the pails - or just not used them. I scrambled to my feet, my neck twisted and stiff from hours spent sleeping in a contorted position. I didn't see either Shelley or Jason, and I was grateful for that; they must have moved to the centre of the car. A thin, unkempt man stood in their place on the other side of the Indian. The bars of light through the slats of the car played across our faces, like light shining through a moving blind.
"Do you know where we are?" I asked the Indian.
He leaned towards me to reply. "No clue. I've never been outside London before. But the train's very slow." He spoke English fluently with a faint foreign accent.
"Ah." So it would take all day to get there, too. They'd loaded us on a slow train carrying freight because it didn't matter how long it took us to get to the camp. They simply didn't care.
It crossed my mind that back when humans used to rear cattle, this must have been how they felt en route to their doom. They didn't know where the train would carry them; they could only wait patiently. By the time they knew what awaited them it was too late. We might be bound for the same kind of end, I thought. We had no guarantee we were really headed to a work camp. If we were on our way to our deaths, we wouldn't know until the doors opened - and we'd spend our last moments struggling in vain. If the door opened and I saw them outside waiting to kill us, should I cling to my dignity and die upright and unafraid? Or fight back and make it difficult for them? I couldn't make up my mind. It wasn't a cheerful thought, but it was inspired by my surroundings. The world looks very different from the inside of a cattle car.
The hours slipped by slowly. The rattle of the train jarred on my nerves like metal grinding on pavement. I finally jostled my way through the car and drank from the spigot; as I'd surmised it was coated in dried spittle. I didn't gain much by my surrender, either, because quenching my thirst only made me realize how hungry I was.
At intervals, without any warning, the train slowed to a halt. Presumably the Mods were unloading cargo from the boxcars, but each time we stopped fear clutched at my gut. What if they were going to kill us? I'd ask myself. But the doors remained closed and just as I became convinced the car would jolt back into motion again. After a few of these false alarms I learned to disregard them; I tried to forget my surroundings and cocoon myself in my own thoughts. Becky. Abel. Islington. People I knew; the past.
All the things, in other words, I was rapidly leaving behind.
We didn't reach our destination until early evening. The creaking groans of the moving train ceased, and the car lurched to a stop. I felt myself breathe a little more easily.
"We're there," said the Indian.
"Where?"
"I don't know. I'm just saying.”
The car disgorged its human cargo onto the platform. It was a slow process. Someone tripped and caught their foot in the gap, eliciting a volley of foul names from the people behind them. Through the doorway the bright afternoon sun beamed on the lush verdure of the English countryside, a barbed wire fence and immaculate gravel-grey concrete.
Once outside I glanced around anxiously. Even though the platform was crowded, there were fewer of us than I'd thought, perhaps a couple hundred or so. In spite of the train's size, all cars except two were boxcars carrying freight; there was no engine car, since the train was controlled by remote. An aircar had landed a short distance away and three Mods had disembarked to watch us unload. In broad daylight we looked shabby and pathetic beside our captors. I saw a Chinese woman gesticulate towards one of them fearfully. The guards were stronger, more agile, and easily three or four times as intelligent as any of us, and though the night might have been long they unlike us didn't need to sleep. Only the lesser species must sleep six hours of every twenty-four - a quarter of our lives.
The guards shepherded us along a corridor between two chain-link fences. As primitive as it seemed, chain link and barbed wire were all they needed; there's no need for a state-of-the-art “living fence” to restrain cowed and unarmed prisoners. I craned my neck to get a look at what lay ahead and when I finally saw our destination I felt a tremendous sense of relief. A single glance was enough to reassure me they wanted us for work, not for slaughter.
At the end of the fenced corridor, a gate opened on a multicoloured landscape of compacted trash a few yards below ground level. It stretched out for a couple miles, enclosed by barbed wire on all sides. By contrast with the green of the countryside, it looked like an ugly sore on the landscape, as if all the rest of the world were living and only this was dead. Already other inmates were at work amidst the trash heaps, drab little figures like ants toiling through rubble. A noisy horde of crows foraged through the debris. One bird larger than the rest caught my eye, strutting about with a piece of trash nearly too big for him to carry, arrogant as a king on his throne - the undisputed master of his world. He at least couldn't think of any place he'd rather be.
As I watched the crow, I stuck my hand in my pocket and found a plastic bag half-full of a lumpy substance like dried leaves. For a moment I couldn't repress a grin. It was the one thing they hadn't taken from me when I'd been arrested, the most useless one of all – Audrey's tea.
Chapter 3
My initial relief at finding we'd live quickly soured into disgust. After only a few hours at the work camp I loathed it. Even the memory of it is like a shadow in the mind.
Crossing the work camp required constant caution – the landfill, like any other landscape, had its contours, its canyons, mountains and death-traps. Over time, prisoners digging for scrap had heaped unwanted trash in mounds like small hills, and the rain had carved out hollows and valleys through the muck. Several of these valleys fed water into boreholes, circular shafts t
hat sank straight through the landfill. They were less than a meter wide, lined with plastic or PVC, and if I looked when the sun shone straight down them at midday I caught a glimpse of black still water in the depths.
No matter how far I was from the boreholes, I had to tread carefully; the sharp edges of tin can lids, scrap metal shards, hypodermic syringes or rusty nails could slice right through the sole of a shoe. Even the more innocuous objects - discarded plastics, rubber tires, dark mud, smashed electronics - formed a treacherous, uneven surface that quickly punished carelessness.
When I stood in the centre of the dump, I could see the fence encircling us in all directions. Beyond it, like a tantalizing reminder of our lost freedom, the trees grew close to the edge of the wire, and several solar-powered robotic sentinels waited vigilant beneath them. If you tried(as someone inevitably did) to scale the fence or dig your way beneath it, the patient automatons would pump you full of bullets. The delicious shade of the trees still seemed cruelly tempting; we had no shade in the landfill.
And without any shelter from the heat I was often thirsty. To get water I had to use a pump at one end of the camp. It was a long walk and I learned to take a bucket or jug(there were any number of both lying about the landfill) to carry water back with me for later. Judging by the bitter aftertaste, the water we drank was recycled from the boreholes, and poorly filtered to boot – subtly flavoured with trace chemicals, cleaners, or other nameless filth. I didn't notice any scent to the water at least, but my sense of scent had grown less perceptive. The smell of sun-soaked garbage accompanied me everywhere, it pursued me even into my dreams, it was so inescapable I finally forgot it altogether.
In one way at least, the work camp was completely different from all the concentration camps of history: other than the robots, there were no permanent guards. No one stood around to scream at us or hurry us up with a blow from a rifle-butt. We could do whatever we wanted except leave. If we fell sick, if we didn't want to work, that was our problem, it was up to us. But we worked just as hard without supervision, for life in the work camp obeyed one simple, compelling law. Those that didn't work, didn't eat.
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